


Out in the Open

by broodyelf



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Guilt, Implied Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pre-Slash, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8173948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broodyelf/pseuds/broodyelf
Summary: It starts like this: at dusk, when he is alone with his memories, a ghost encased in metal comes to him. It speaks to him, battles him, and unleashes a dragon that he has not seen in years.Or, how Hanzo decides to join Overwatch.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You know, I think a lot about Hanzo Shimada's state of mind and well-being, and I had to write about it, so here's this mess. Title is somewhat taken from The Neighbourhood's "The Beach" because that song is Hanzo af.

**I.**

It starts like this: at dusk, when he is alone with his memories, a ghost encased in metal comes to him. It speaks to him, battles him, and unleashes a dragon that he has not seen in years.

A spirit, a ghost—his brother.

He drops to the floor. The dragons drain him of his energy, which is not plentiful to begin with. The ghost taunts him with forgiveness he does not deserve. It leaves him with a choice.

 _Genji_ leaves him with a choice.

He returns to his mourning, and by the time dawn breaks, he is gone, chasing the wisps he finds on the wind.

**II.**

_His lip is split open and he has a black right eye. He walks with his head bowed back to his room. The servants in the hall who pass him by pause when they see him, but they say nothing._

_When he opens the door to his room, he is not startled to see Genji waiting for him. A shock of green hair, lips turned up into a smile that drops as soon as he sees him._

_“Again?” He asks._

_Hanzo shrugs. He hears Genji sigh and then he is in front of him, a hand on his shoulder. They both pretend that Hanzo doesn’t flinch at the contact._

_“I am sorry, brother.” Genji says. His voice is grave. “I—“_

_“Do not waste your breath with apologies, Genji. I made a mistake and I was punished for it. That is all.”_

_Genji grits his teeth. “Missing training for being sick is not—“_

_“Genji.” Hanzo bites out. Then, softer, even though he will deny it: “Please.”_

_Genji nods, drops his hand from his brother’s shoulder. They sit there, two defeated dragons, and moonlight shines through the window, casting shadows._

**III.**

His brother introduces him to the members of Overwatch with glee in his voice. Hanzo does not know if he is smiling—his visor makes it impossible to, another barrier between them—but he knows Genji like the back of his own hand. 

Or, rather, he used to. 

Everyone is open and friendly with him. Hana offers to teach him how to play video games. Lucio makes him a mix tape. Zenyatta offers to help him meditate. Dr. Ziegler lectures him about not eating, and Winston offers him peanut butter. _Peanut butter._

It is unnerving, to say the least. Everyone is kind, but the cowboy is…something else.

Hanzo almost rolls his eyes at his attire—who has boots with _spurs,_ anyway—but there’s something about him that is…intriguing. All the members of Overwatch are, in their own ways, but Hanzo gets the distinct feeling that behind the brash jokes and crooked smiles, something hides.

He should know. He has become good at hiding.

He hides from the team, takes his dinners alone, avoids training with them unless it is absolutely necessary. When they’re in the field, he finds aloof perches, builds sniper’s nests far away. He ignores the praise that the others throw his way.

He knows that this will not last, so there is no point in pretending.

**IV.**

_“You are a weapon, Hanzo.” The elders’ voices whisper in his ears, coil around him, tight enough to hurt. His brother’s broken body is crumpled on the floor, blood as red as flowers, hair that obnoxious green._

_Hanzo is sick. The room spins and those voices keep echoing in his ear. The sword clatters when he drops it, but he does not hear it, does not hear anything over the rushing of what sounds like the ocean in his ears._

_He runs._

_He runs, and he does not stop until he is far enough away to be alone in his shame. He screams at the top of his lungs, his throat protesting, but still it does not drown out the whispers, his brother’s pleading, and the sickening sound of—_

_The newly appointed head of the Shimada clan breaks, and the pieces scatter across the seas._

**V.**

“Have you decided yet?” Genji asks.

He opens his eyes and looks over at Genji, studies his profile, silver gleaming, utterly unreadable.

“No.” He says.

“No, you have not decided, or no, you are not joining?” Even after all this time, Hanzo thinks, Genji can be cheeky. Part of it soothes him, that unchanging facet of his personality.

“I have not decided.” He grits his teeth.

“You have been extraordinary in the field, Hanzo. Many on the team have said so. It would benefit us all greatly if you joined…” A pause. “It would also benefit me.”

_How can it do so? I bring nothing but death. I killed you once, brother, and I can again. Why give me trust I do not deserve?_

Hanzo says nothing.

“Think about it.” Genji says, reaches out to touch his shoulder. It brings Hanzo back, that gesture, to that night all those years ago, and part of him _aches_.

**VI.**

_He does not start the tradition until later. It is…less than admirable, but there is something about the ritual that soothes him in some way. Every year, he visits, makes his offering, and places himself before a silent jury that has already found him guilty._

_Every year he makes one cut. Some bleed more than others, but they heal. He wishes that they wouldn’t, so that he could be marked in some way, but the healing reminds him he is alive, and that is punishment in its own form._

**VII.**

He smells him, or at least the smoke from his cigars, before he sees him.

“Figured I’d find ya up here,” McCree says, settling next to him on the roof.

“So you have.”

They remain silent for a while. Hanzo is content to stare at the stars, even if he is a bit unused to the company of someone else. He wants to say it is annoying, being found again, but part of him almost craves it. He notices, after a small time, that he is being watched.

He sighs. So his peace has ended. “Why have you sought me out?”

McCree shrugs. “Thought someone oughta.”

Hanzo is not sure what to say to that. He pauses. “And why is that?”

McCree looks at him. Hanzo does not look back, is almost afraid to.

“You seem like you could use a friend.”

He scoffs. “I do not need your _friendship_.” He grits his teeth. “Or your pity, for that matter.”

“Pity? Who said anything ‘bout pity?”

Hanzo looks at him, glaring. “Do not be a fool.”

McCree raises his eyebrows. “No one here pities you.”

“Then why are you all being so—“ He sighs, cuts himself off. He can feel a headache forming behind his temples.

McCree remains silent. He’s waiting, Hanzo knows, but he feels as if he has already said too much, like some raw part of him is on display and he only just realized it.

He wants to shake this cowboy by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. He wants to yell at him, to scream. The dragons itch under his skin. Can’t he see that he is a fire that only burns? There is no warmth to be found within him, no comfort _._

He does not say this aloud, of course. He gets the feeling he does not have to. McCree stays with him until sunlight seeps through the clouds in the morning.

**VIII.**

_Hanzo wonders if this assassin will kill him. He’s subtler than some of the others that have been sent. He wonders if this will be the year, if this will be the last time he sets foot in these halls. The thought brings him some peace, but it is startling and stark, and so he clenches his jaw and pushes the thought from his head. The thought is not foreign by any means. But there is something that keeps him from it: the memory of a distant laugh, a smile—_

_He almost burns himself._

_Almost, but not quite._

**IX.**

It ends like this: he shoots an arrow into a man’s head and watches as he falls. McCree glances up at him with a smile and he can hear Tracer’s voice over the comms telling them her ETA. He breathes in, steadying himself after such an intense battle. The others check in, Hana and Lucio making jokes he does not understand. McCree is waiting for him below his perch. He looks small from Hanzo’s view, but he knows that is not true.

Part of him hesitates. He thinks of Genji, whose voice comes through the static in his ears, of his pleading tones all those years ago. _It would also benefit me._ He thinks of McCree’s quiet company, of the smoke from his cigars, of all the layers that lay beneath, of his scars and stories. He does not know Hanzo well, does not know he is a monster, but…

But he seems willing to.

They all do, in their own ways, and he does not know if he will be able to trust them completely. Maybe he could.

He does not trust himself, hasn’t in years, but _maybe he could._

Hanzo has never been one for senseless optimism, but perhaps it is not so senseless.

“Hey, Hanzo!” McCree yells, smile as wide as ever. “You coming?”

He hesitates. Again, a choice that he does not deserve, offered by someone who he hopes he will not ruin.

 **X.**  

He leaps from his perch.

The landing does not hurt.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow me me on tumblr: http://dual-wielding-dalish.tumblr.com/


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